Spinning lights into darks,
While the crowds swell below,
Not pleasant as a lark,
My song is one of woe.

I suffer, the grim sentinel,
The usher of the blind,
And yet I do not exist —
a child of the mind.

The underground I hold,
With a hand of steel,
Metal monsters leashed below,
Devouring hordes at my peal.

But I remain, eternal,
Through spring bloom and winter snow.
My wooden frame collects dust,
My days of tyranny lose their glow.

My hands yearn for a role more sublime,
Conducting music with sweeping strokes,
Not to enslave with worrying chimes,
Then my peals turn feeble croaks.

I’m lost in visions of eternity,
In stations empty of activity,
Then a hand reaches up to me,
And from my socket I am freed.

And replaced with another clock,
Much like me when I was new,
Ambitious and punctual,
Proudly ruling its purview.

I’m free to roam pleasant fantasies,
My existence a blip in eternity,
But beneath runs an unavoidable truth,
For that’s all they’ll ever be — delusions.